The Second Stomach

Any worm can eat his way into the crisp flesh of an apple, but to eat himself out requires a different variety of appetite. It is a tactical consumption that does not consort with the belly. Upon satiation is the starting pistol fired. Everything becomes food and drink: lovers, soldiers, nondescript service workers, fire arms, businessmen, school children, political movements, saboteurs, connected benefactors, whole nation states, and a trail mix of assorted technological wonders. None of these are fit for proper sustenance, yet dinner plates of the highest finery are reserved for each class. I will imbibe from a chalice what can not be broken with my teeth. The memory of breeze and sunlight still occupy a fading space place in my mind. Sunk deep into the edible breach of a fruit which heals the entrance wound close, my mind is flavored with tartness, even wincing of the soul. Something so regrettable as a minor trespass is made small against the sweet prospect of escape. East and west are synonyms. Just as north and south depend on my optimism. This is an environment that must be traversed through gnawed tunnels. Gluttony cuts every map in half, which is not good for heavy digestion. To see effort through is a tax on character. Every muscle group will be pressed into double duty to make up for spiritual penury. The second leg of a trek is often complicated by the tiptoeing daze that dissolves bravery. Only then is one sober enough in mind to understand what can not be wedged in between knife and fork. Perhaps a greater bite than my own will split this perverse world open. I want to see the stars again. My sight and hearing have slowly migrated into the ceaseless labor of grinding mandibles. Should I blow out the last candle of perseverance and declare a fast? After all, the privacy of world fruit has it's own personal touch. Being very insular in my taste, it may be the case that I have wondered into a trap that I set.